


Becoming - First Draft

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, During Canon, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Canon, Rescue Missions, Secrets, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 18,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 1: A Long Road Ahead Adaptation</p><p>When the companions are left on their own, the group must address a threat from within their midst. Fighters, leaders and scholars must all band together to save one of their own.</p><p>UPDATE: This version exists for archival purposes only. Read the GOOD version of this story in Part 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be including a song selection for each chapter that helps to set the tone of the narrative.  
> Theme for Chapter 1: [Summertime Sadness - Cello](https://youtu.be/HIpCICJ9_HY/)  
> Very sad and very epic. The percussion is very Fallout 3 to me.

DANSE

Alexandria, VA

September 19th, 2277

The region pulsed with triumph. Adams Air Force Base still glowed and smoldered, columns of smoke fading from black to white. In the oppressive darkness that starless nights brought, the damage was scarcely perceptible. Only the faint flickers of embers clinging to life gave any indication that the last few days had been anything but usual.

The newly broken skin over his brow burned slightly, itching. His raised a fingertip to lightly trace the mark. A negligible discomfort. Garbed in civilian attire, Danse’s hand dropped to tug at the collar of his shirt. Too tight on his brawny form, the fabric stretched taut to accommodate his broad shoulders and pinched at his biceps. He hoped that the end of the fighting would bring new supplies. His faction was in dire need.

Newly flushed with victory, his Brothers had insisted he join them on the mandatory furlough. He was uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the shirt. The battle had been a difficult one, and not without causalities. The loss of his mentor sat particularly unwell. A broken visor on his helmet, shattering in his face to slice at his eye, was barely worth mentioning in light of much graver fates. Still, it was his duty to set the tone for his unit. He would accompany his men without having to directly interact in a social setting. He could do that; had been commanded to. He suspected it was a ploy set forth by the Paladins and Sentinels to keep the other soldiers out from underfoot during the process of cleaning up the mess they had left for the Wasteland. A few bottlecaps tossed at the local populace would get the job done easily enough.

He could count on the youngest members of his squad to always know where the nearest watering hole was. They were consistent, both on the battlefield and off. Danse pulled the door open for a few of them, always the protector.

Being one of the few establishments in the area left standing, the room crawled with soldiers, a sea of orange, olive and tattered earth tones. Leaving his men to their mirth, Danse shouldered his way to the bar. He ordered for himself, not wasting his time with beer. He had no fear of alcohol. He downed one glass of whiskey before signaling for another. It was crowded, this time he had to wait his turn. He exhaled, leaning his elbows on the bartop. The skin on his neck prickled and he took stock, quietly, coolly.

A man sat alone at the seat furthest from the door. The man had a predator’s eyes, examining him.

A second glass was pressed into his hand by the barkeep. He picked it up.

The civilian continued to watch him.  Danse broke their gaze to look into his glass. He sighed and stood straight. It only took a few steps to cross the space between them. Stretched to his full height, he stared formidably down at the man, who peered back up at him, unfazed. It was too dark to make out the shade of his eyes.

Careful not to look away this time, Danse tossed his drink back in one gulp, placing the glass upside down on the man’s table. He stepped away, smoothly edging towards a back exit. Danse cracked the door, pausing in the entryway.

The man drummed his bottle with his fingers, hesitating before sliding out of his seat.

They stepped outside, into the silent blackness of night. They were alone. The sounds of merriment and clattering glasses echoed dully from inside.

The two of them struck.

It was all hands and heat.

Danse allowed himself to be backed against the establishment wall, cool concrete meeting his skin. Blood rushing to throb in his limbs and cloud his brain, Danse mumbled, “You didn’t ask my name.”

“I know,” the man hissed in his ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The One with the Exposition
> 
> A note on notes: I will always post a link to a thematic song cover that I feel matches the tone of that specific chapter at the very top of the notes, above the name of the character we are following. I believe that listening to this piece of music will heighten my intent - things are funnier, or more intense or really, really fucking sad - and great care has been taken to get each song selection just right. I will always post the title of the upcoming work as well along with occasional behind-the-scenes info. (But, please, really do listen to the music - it goes hand in hand with the story.)
> 
> Hi, all. This chapter was always meant to be short and dirty, getting some plot elements out of the way before launching into the main story. Originally, this entire series focused on an entirely separate character but, while writing this, putting Danse as the lead seemed to make sense. It is canon that he has been a Paladin for a decade. If he really is the greatest soldier in the BoS, why is he still in this rank and not a Paladin-Commander, Star Paladin or even a Sentinel? What happened over that ten year period that kept him right where he started? 
> 
> As a note, the Sole Survivor does not appear in this season. The other characters are strong enough to exist without a SS. It also keeps me from inadvertently writing myself into the story :/
> 
> I'm excited to tell this story, which is currently comprised of a seven season arc.  
> I'm also very nervous.  
> Please fuel my fire with comments and questions!


	2. The One with the Exposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 2:[The Speakeasy Three - When I Get Low, I Get High](https://youtu.be/acb-js00c40/)  
> Just something fun and very Diamond City Radio-y.

PIPER

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 21st, 2287

Piper Wright had taken a home closest to the bridge, feeling almost as if the proximity to incoming caravans would give her greater access to word from the rest of the world. It hadn’t. She drew a single, ragged curtain and squinted through a broken window where the front parlor had once stood, hoping for the chance to see a familiar figure trudge up the bridge, too much gear hanging at their sides.

Nope. Still gone.

There was a nudge at her knee. She stooped to scratch at the shepard’s ears. “You hungry, boy?” The dog grinned and scampered in a tight circle. “Yeah, me, too.” She donned her jacket and stepped out onto the driveway, Dogmeat doing his best to weave between her heels. A faint peach hue still clung to the western horizon. Further upwards, a deepening blue.

There was a crash and the sound of ripping fabric from across the street.

She treaded to the road and looked both ways for anyone else to relieve her. Empty. She sighed and stalked towards the house opposite hers.

Hancock had predictably claimed the house with the chem station behind it. Had been the one to point out its’ existence, in fact. Tentatively, she stepped past the threshold and cautiously examined the interior. Hancock’s provisional home was in state of disarray – one hell of a feat for a domicile that was mostly made of boards holding up a sagging roof.

There was another banging thump from down the hallway and a flurry of papers erupted into the hall, each page pirouetting independently on the air before drifting gently to the floor.

Dogmeat whined and lay down on the floor, muzzle pressed between his paws.

She trod down the hall, glass crunching underfoot, and peered into what had once been an office. A powered terminal sat blinking on a desk on a corner. “Hey, uh, you lose something? Other than your marbles, I mean.”

Hancock was in a corner, rocking a tall dresser, trying wedge his scant body behind, attempting to swing it away from the wall. It must have slid too slowly for his liking – he settled for upending it. The rotten wood shattered into splinters. He crouched, red coat fanning the rubble in a half-circle. He picked through the pieces, flipping chunks of wood away with flicks of his wrist.  He gave an exasperated sigh and stood, heaving up on knobby knees. He pushed past her, momentarily pressing her against the doorjamb.

Piper titled her head back, rolled her eyes and followed. He was on his toes now, tossing long-rusted pots out of the upper kitchen cabinetry to land with hollow clangs of the dusty floor. Dogmeat yipped and scampered. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot. “Well?”

He sank back to his heels, regarding her for the first time, blank confusion on his face. “I can’t remember.”

A single moment of silent awkwardly passed.

Hancock pushed off the cabinets, launching into long strides, stepping over bits of furniture and shrapnel. “Now –” he raised a finger “– either that means it was extremely important and I’ve created a feedback loop to protect its location or–” he opened his palm “– it wasn’t that important to begin with.” He held up a finger again before launching his hands into his pockets, searching, finally pulling out a tin of Mentats. He pried the lid off and shook the tin at an angle. He popped a handful into his mouth, tablets crunching between his teeth, as he turned in a full circle, scanning the floor.

Her arms loosened. His ongoing antics and smart mouth exhausted her, exhausted everyone. She knew that on some level she should be frightened of him, but he seemed like more of a mess than a man. She could only be so terrified of a scattered ghoul barely taller than she was. Even if his flesh was stretched to ribbons.

“Then leave it,” Piper grumbled.

Preoccupied, his tongue rolled in his mouth, holding hands to his hips. He tapped his fingers against his pelvis. “Right, then.”

They sauntered out into the road, sky having darkened a few shades more. Dogmeat fell into step with them, shoving his furry body between Piper and Hancock. He lowered his head, baring his teeth and growled at the ghoul. Hancock skirted wide around him.

“Back down, mutt.”

“Don’t be a jerk. He just misses Blue. We all do. Makes him nervous.”

He lit and walked. “Headin’ off into the Glowing Sea without one of us was a dick move.” He blew smoke in twin plumes from his nasal cavity.

Balls of warm light cheered the potholed street. Evenly spaced oil lamps flanked them every twenty feet, set to blaze on a ridged schedule by the robot butler. As they rounded a curve in the road a voice called from one of the rooftops, “Hey, Hancock, aren’t you overdue for sending a _Having a Great Time, Wish You Were Here_ greeting card to your fair city?” Spheres of yellow lamplight reflected off a pair of sunglasses. “Assuming, of course, that it hasn’t already been reduced to a smoldering ruin of urine-soaked mattresses and the charred bones of the unwashed masses.”

“Hey, Deacon, something came through on the caravan for you. Where’d I put it? Oh, here it is.” Hancock pulled a hand from behind his back, middle finger aloft.

This was the rabble that she had left Diamond City for?

An attempt at charity, Piper said “He doesn’t mean anything by it. He thinks he’s being funny.”

“He usually is. He’s also usually an asshole.”

Piper couldn’t raise a dispute. She was used to rubbing people the wrong way. People tended to watch their mouths less once they got upset.

They had cleared the fallen house beside the workshop and managed to set up a mess hall of sorts, benches pushed together lengthwise to make one long table. They would meet, talk, boast. Codsworth had been overjoyed at the instruction to cook for the lot of them. For the dog, too. And the mutant.

Mealtimes could be strained. Not a one of them agreed or had much in common. Cait and MacCready were probably the most similar, but her language offended him for some reason Piper couldn’t fathom. What a motley bunch. Without Blue to act as chaperone, they had little to do with one another. Still, they met regularly, kept up appearances, worked on the settlement. Every one of them wanted to be ready once Blue came back.

Arriving at the enlarged cooking station, the two of them split to take seats at opposite ends of the table. Codsworth hovered, happily humming to himself as he placed platters. Some of them chatted, comparing modifications they had made to their guns. “No weapons at the table!” Codsworth ordered. _Weird._ He wasn’t even looking this way. Curie primly folded a rag and placed it in her lap as a napkin. Paladin Danse leaned against the table rather than sat. She had yet to see him without his armor on. She didn’t know why. It seemed uncomfortable. Preston joined them last, making their assembly complete. The Colonel frowned, shoulder’s hunched tight in concern as he pulled his chair closer. “I’ve received word –”

“Shut up, Preston,” every last one of them answered.

Preston set his mouth in a hard line and tipped his head.

Piper snorted. Well, occasionally they agreed.

Oddly prompted by the push and pull of insults and comradery, she missed her sister.

She filled her plate and joined her associates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Pull of the Moon
> 
> This title was a reference to the names of FRIENDS episodes. This one was all about establishing the environment and relationships of the characters as told through the eyes of the resident storyteller. I'm very happy with the song choice for this chapter - I think it adds some levity to a scene that is all about setup. 
> 
> Please, let me know how I am doing through comments or kudos! This is the first time that I've published anything publicly.
> 
> Cheers!


	3. The Pull of the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 3: [Stairway to Heaven played by Galvez](https://youtu.be/TZfvaUU15yA/)  
> Boy, I had to look so hard for the perfect version of Stairway to go with this chapter.

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 21st, 2287

Another evening meal drew to a close.

John Hancock poured his beer into a glass, as not to be a heathen.

In the absence of action, too much time was spent talking. On hardships and unmet desires, they could all weigh in. Conversations took dark turns. MacCready, the youngest of them, held attention currently. Plucked from his own town, John may have held the marksman in higher esteem then the rest. It affected him to listen, to know that justice had again failed, dragged another soul to disparaging depths. 

“Sometimes it gets to be too much, too hard,” Mac shook his head, rolling a bullet between his fingers. “I think about ending it. To get off the ride. I think everyone does, if you wanna be darn honest.”

The Paladin hummed, mouth turned down. “Within the Brotherhood, it is an option that is heavily considered. Although I could never dream of considering that type of extremism…when there is no chance for reclamation, all other options drained…such acts are generally deemed acceptable.” 

MacCready’s smile went into overdrive, smoothing out intent, his cheeks red. “It’s not like, ya know, I actually _would_. It’s just something I wonder about. A way out. Not like I ever meant it.”

John traced his fingers around the rim of his glass. “I meant it.”

The shifting of seats and clank of dishware ceased. An oppressive silence fell.

_Shit._

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

He had put it so simply. There wasn’t any emotion in the statement, just the sharing of a fact.

He let his onyx stare drift to each individual.  “What? Surprised?” He waved a hand near his face. “Thought it was an accident? That I just wander the Wastes looking for random needles stick myself with? Maybe I tripped and fell on it?”

Deacon propped his head up with one hand. “I dunno. Pretty sure I’ve caught you in more than one gutter over the years. Come to think of it, yeah, that is what I expect.”

John lit a cigarette, not looking at him. “Thanks, sunshine. That makes my night.” A tremor built in one leg, rattling his ankle as he bounced a knee. “Shit was hard as hell to find, I’ll tell ya that. And cost more arms and legs then I have,” John continued. “Course I knew what that florescent junk would do to me. But why the hell would I think that I’d survive that?”

Deacon had turned his face so that his glasses were angled directly at him. “Cuuuuz, you’re a delusional, reckless junkie with little regard for social norms, self-preservation or personal consequences?”

John held perfectly still, smoke from his cigarette curling up into the evening sky. “Man, you are on fire tonight,” he said almost relevantly. 

“With you, pal, it’s far too easy. Just look at the trail you’ve left – ditching Goodneighbor, the mess in Diamond City, Atlantia City, New New York City –” Deacon paused. “Wait. How many cities do I not know about? Pretty much any place you’ve stepped, right?”

All he felt was black and red and green, glowing and swirling at the edge of awareness. It pulsed, an ebb and flow of mounting sensation, driving him to action. John stood, pushing back his chair, flicking his cigarette over a shoulder, hand hovering too close to his knife. Preston and MacCready followed suit, one, two, right after him. Tension crackled. Preston held out his hands. “Whoa, now. Let’s keep things civil.”

MacCready piped up, predictably jumping to John’s defense. “Don’t be an assmunch, dicklord.”

Deacon whistled. “Boy, MacCready – you kiss your wife with that mouth?”

_Boom._

Mac launched himself over the table at Deacon, fingers outstretched, boots crushing delicate ceramic plates. Valentine and Cait moved to grab him, catching him by the legs. Mac slammed down, making one of the benches jump, rolling in their grasp, kicking and flinging his arms. The rest stood to avoid his flailing limbs.

Strong dropped large fists to the table, shaking it, sending tableware flying. “Little Man make big mess. More!” The mutant slid his arm across the table, clearing what items remained unscathed.

Codsworth rumbled to life, spitting sparks. “You lot! Do you have any inclination of how long it takes to get gravy just the precise shade and viscosity without a proper roux? Not at all,” he answered for himself. “After all the trouble I go through day after day, this is how you rabble-rousers repay me? Pitch your childish fits elsewhere! Off with you!”

Apologies were mumbled all around, all of which were directed at the robot and none at their initial opponent. Chairs were righted and they slunk away.

“Nice job, demagogue,” Deacon cut at him as they cleared the vicinity. “Just like Thanksgiving dinners growing up.”

“Look, friend, you keep your comments and your slander to yourself or I swear to various deities that I will forever…” Words dissolved in his mouth like ash, mind voiding. John tried to snatch at them but they floated just out of reach. Alarmed, he tried to recall them. He snapped his fingers. “First word. Sounds like…” He waited, froze, hardened gaze focusing on air. Nothing. Like his mind had been scrubbed clean with Abraxo. He dropped his hand. “Fuck.”

Well, that was disconcerting. It almost a good comeback.

“Eloquently put,” Deacon responded, breaking away from him to attend whatever services he partook in.

John wandered the development for a time, night growing darker as he pulled various ingredients for chems from collapsed buildings, weaving his thin body around fallen lumber and jagged steel **.** He felt oddly at home in the rubble. It suited him – a hollow shell, inexplicably linked to something that no longer existed, forever standing in tribute.   

Pockets finally full to bursting, he set on a path to take him home.

“Stop,” a deep voice commanded.

John halted, swaying in too-large boots. He noted that the man was careful to not address him by name, to give him power by having an identity. He twisted partly around, feet remaining planted. A hulking form loomed in the darkness. The ground trembled slightly with each step Paladin Danse took. Moonlight spilled into the upwards curve of his armor’s torso, bouncing the faintest trace of light up onto his face. He came to a stop several feet away from the ghoul, gauntleted arms hanging loose.

“What you did…” He didn’t meet John’s eyes. “Was…was it because of what happened in Hartford?”

A pang. A twist in an old knife wound.

John didn’t answer. He turned his back on the soldier and stalked across the yards, having fielded enough for one evening.

Perhaps he’d blame erratic behavior on the pull of the moon, lunar influence altering the tides. Such things were not within his control, nor his fault.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Propaganda and Paraphernalia
> 
>    
> In my play-through, I was kind of shocked at the amount of times suicide was referred to. The Lost Patrol, MacCready's dialogue, Hancock may or may not mean to, and if you royally screw up Blind Betrayal, Danse will actually go through with it. This conversation didn't seem like a stretch.
> 
> Please send comment or kudos!


	4. Propaganda and Paraphernalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 4:[The Civil Wars - Talking In Your Sleep](https://youtu.be/TchNCdGTRfo/)  
> I once worked on a production that used this song and it's still haunting.

DANSE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 21st, 2287

The females assisted the robot with cleanup, although Cait’s voice carried louder than the others’. It was no secret that the girls felt outnumbered and were quite vocal about that fact. He supposed, should the boundaries of programming and species be pushed, three to nine would be an accurate ratio. They were still finishing chores as he passed them a second time, making his usual rounds within the camp.

Deacon sat on the opposite curb, his glasses removed for a rare moment, cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt. Danse’s brows lowered. The evening’s heated dialogue, only a few hours old, still tasted sour. Singling out a fellow companion for public ridicule, regardless of justification, was an unacceptable scenario. Such acts lowered morale and caused additional, lasting effects. A reprimand was in order.

Danse extended a heavy foot from sidewalk to street, empty fusion core beeping as the system replaced it with a fresh one. He had taken a few paces down the road when he stopped short.

The tiny synth, Curie, hurried in Deacon’s direction, small feet skipping across the asphalt as the man rose to greet her. They stood together for a time, shoulders leaning towards one another, sharing words, subtle touches, heads tossed back in laugher. His stomach turned slightly. It was a fault in Deacon’s training to consider a synth as a possible mate.

Danse faded into the night, servos whirring in his knees and powerful legs carried him home. An emaciated tree towered over the round-about, its dappled shadows crawling along the pavement like vines. He turned to his domicile, once painted powder blue. He had chosen one of the decrepit homes in the farthest corner of the development. The Knight had chosen to build defenses at the bridge but had neglected to secure the opposite side of the expansion. If there was to be an unprecedented attack, it would come from the northeast. He was certain of it. Danse had taken it upon himself to be the first line of defense.

A fire can on the porch threw faint trances of golden light to filter through broken windows, barely illuminating the interior. He shifted, broadened shoulders squeezing through the frame at an angle and stepping inside.

Danse stopped, nearly wedging himself in his own doorway.

A cloth wrapped package tied in string sat on the remnants of his kitchen counter. A gift.

He ducked inside and paused to regard it before bringing up a hand to tentatively tug at the diminutive bow with thick metal fingers. The package unraveled. A dozen syringes rolled across the countertop.

Calmex. Rare. Expensive.

His fists clenched at his sides.

He felt a rush of heat, suffocating inside his armor. He spun, leveling a vicious punch to the broken refrigerator’s door, denting the metal. He dealt a second blow with his opposite hand, folding the door inwards, hinges squealing. A third and final impact followed, forcing the unit into the wall behind it, plaster cracking into spider-web patterns that stretched to weave outwards.

He stepped back, flexing the metal joints in his fingers. He swallowed and strode to a side bedroom. He squared himself within the frame of his armor station. With a hiss a compressed air, he stepped backwards out of his suit. Rigging hooks into the shoulder eyelets of his armor secured it. He twisted the fusion core out and strode back into the kitchen. Not breaking stride, Danse scooped up the package of syringes, turned on his heel and backtracked down the hall. He sat heavily on his dilapidated mattress and wished for a door. After tucking the core into a nearby drawer, Danse shrugged out of his interfaced suit, pulled the hood up to release thick, dark hair. He neatly folded his attire and placed it next to the core.

He fanned syringes out beside him in an arc.

It was no secret that his demons plagued him nightly. This was an old battle. Possibly why neither house on either side of his was occupied. A broken, battered soldier with tendencies to relive ineffective combats at the edge of consciousness each night made for a poor neighbor. 

Danse picked up a single hypodermic, rolling it between his fingers, turning it over again and again, a numbness already promising to spread inside of him. He pried the cap off of the needle. He was far from base and lacked immediate orders. Sitting and waiting for word had never sat particularly well with him. Exhaustion that had little to do with the night’s events gnawed at his being. Memories, so carefully held at bay, threatened to creep into his subconscious.

A slight prick in his arm and it was done.

Danse lay back and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Easy, Boy
> 
> I've had chronic insomnia for years and I can totally relate to the canon information that Danse can't sleep.
> 
> Please comment or kudos below!


	5. Easy, Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 5 and is the song that is playing on the radio during the fight:[Mad World - Postmodern Jukebox](https://youtu.be/aVevvbFNKiY/)  
> I love how this song has been completely reimagined and is nothing like you expect it to be.

DOGMEAT

Old North Bridge, MA

November 22nd, 2287

It is sunny. My paws prance lightly over rotted wood, nails clicking. A light breeze tickles my nose, bringing intriguing scents from upriver. I prick my ears and scan for troubles. It is peaceful. A radio faintly plays in the workshop. I nap for a bit in the sunshine, belly up on the crumbling bridge.

It is almost midday when Armor Man rises to join the others. It is even later when Not Monster rouses himself, cutting through the street and weaving drunkenly through the garden, righting his hat and straightening his collar.

My head drops low. Something rumbles in my chest, an unease that shifts easily to a growl. It is harder and harder to distinguish Not Monster from those that I wish to bite and tear at until they stop moving. I have warned them. But humans are stupid creatures and they do not heed my advice.

Seated on a nearby stone barrier, Glasses pushes up and glides to approach Not Monster. Words are traded, low and sharp. I do not understand these words. I am glad for this. Men and their words. Silly, hurtful, unnecessary, causing more damage than any enemy, driving one another to fight even without the presence of danger. I sneeze in disgust, tossing my head.

Voices raise. Not Monster circles away. Glasses follows, casually raises an arm. Not Monster swats it away. Glasses steps too close, mouth still moving. Not Monster squares his shoulders, drawing himself up to appear larger. Not Monster moves quickly, grabs the other man’s wrist, wrenches him to one side, pulling him off balance, throws an opposite shoulder into his, knocking him back. Glasses grips his opponent with his free hand, fingers wrapping in coat fabric, hauling him off his feet. They grunt and go down, grappling on the ground.

One of the females - the loud one - yells at them.

Grasping at shoulders, the two men roll, pulling at each other, not saying words anymore but making guttural, primal noises instead. They tip past a gap in the retaining wall, tumbling in a flurry as they bowl down the slope to land with a grand splash in the river.

I chase them down the grade.

For a brief moment, they get their feet under them and stand, each shoving the other away. They circle one another, water rushing past them, soaking them from the thighs down. Not Monster leaps, droplets of water cascading from his coat, catching Glasses around the waist and knocking him into the river once more. They wrestle. Not Monster plants his knees high on Glasses’ chest, full weight rolling forward, hands grasping a throat, teeth bared. He let loose a grating snarl, elbows locked as he holds the other man’s head underwater. Glasses splashes and kicks, trying to roll his opponent away.

There are more voices now, coming over the ridge.

I dance up and down embankment and bark, telling them to stop this, to stop it right now.

They do not listen.

Skinny Boy charges hip deep into the river, water carving outwards in his wake. He is waving a boomstick, shouting.

They do not listen to him either.

Giant claps in delight at the disorder, slapping his knees.

Water explodes in all directions as Armor Man lands in the water, jumping down from the ridge. Wresting enormous hands on the back of Non Monster’s coat, he hauls him off of Glasses. Armor Man secures both arms around Not Monster and pulls him bodily up from the water, spinning him away from the others and onto the bank, droplets arcing. Not Monster stumbles, rolling once, stabilizing himself on all fours. He raises his head, unhinges his jaw and roars, a shrill, vicious sound.

My tail tucks between my legs.

Not Monster no longer exists. I cannot call him that.

No boomsticks are drawn. It is strange. The humans are frozen. Armor Man’s mouth hangs open. He does not breathe.

I twirl and pace, stalking as close as I dare, snapping my teeth.

Monster’s eyes did not glow. They should. That would make sense.

I am confused. I whine.

Skinny Boy and Armor Man still stand in the stream. They exchange an indecisive glance. Skinny Boy shakes his head. More words. Armor Man swallows and nods. He hurls forward, steel fingers catching Monster by the lapels of his coat, holding him stiffly at a distance. Monster swipes at his face with gnarled fingers, just out of reach, nails falling to scratch harmlessly at metal-encased arms. The loud female charges down the bank, steel-toed boots churning up small rocks, a canvas sack in her hands. Monster roars again, body writhing, trying to break away. The female drops the sack over Monster’s head, twisting the opening, holding it secure. Hat Man and Skinny Boy join them, taking hold of Monster’s thrusting legs. With difficulty, the group begins to move, Armor Man bellowing orders, carrying Monster, still slashing out with ridged fingers, hissing and yowling, up the road to the crumbling houses.

Music still plays, faint notes drifting from the center of camp.

I head for my shelter, my own small, safe home behind Master’s. I pad in, and roam in a circle. I finally hunker, rump up, one paw over my eyes and wish for Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: What Are Friends For?
> 
> As an interesting note, this chapter was originally written from Strong's point of view, but then I realized that the dialogue was unnecessary.
> 
> Let me know what you think by posting a comment!


	6. What Are Friends For?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 6:[Boyce Avenue - Glycerine](https://youtu.be/UR0cpYtkBWI/)  
> MacCready is so rock and roll.

MACCREADY

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 22nd, 2287

So far, being big was failing to hold any appeal.

MacCready wasn’t in the habit of defending ferals. Then again, he had never seen a ghoul turn, much less a ghoul he was actually fond of. This situation left him sickened and torn. His former Mayor had been trussed and secured within the root cellar at the back of Danse’s adopted house, handcuffed and straining around a cement column. Heavy steel doors distanced them from the howling racket below. Mac’s quick tongue had bought time, skillfully placing doubt and enticing hesitation. He was thankful for his rusty mayoral peace-keeping tendencies. Dealing with panicky adults was not so different from calming irrational children.

Dazedly, the group had reconvened under the eaves of the workshop. They shuffled, coughed, stole nervous glances at each other and neglected to address the issue. They were scared. He couldn’t blame them. Even the Paladin looked stunned.

Deacon had his back against the faded paint of the home’s façade, his legs crossed. He picked at the slashes in his shirt. “Aww…that was my favorite shirt. Went with everything.”

“I thought he was just getting chem-loopy,” Piper admitted, voice timid, finally raising the issue. She had wrapped her arms around herself. “I mean…I didn’t notice. Did anyone notice?”

They were all out of their elements. Of late, life had been a revolving door of trading places, risking lives, and pet projects. Caught up in personal agendas and inclinations, MacCready could see how they, as a unit, had failed to keep an eye on their fellows.

“So many of you, coming and going at all hours…” Codsworth lamented.  

“Ghoul no say anything to Strong. Strong not care for skinny raisin-man. Too weak. Too small.”

“He was bloody gruff and irritatin’,” Cait chimed in. “Who’s to say if he was any less gruff or irritatin’ before?”

“He was, _less_ ,” Valentine responded. “Fewer eyes on him in Goodneighbor, though. Even less on the road.”

“Why is it still alive? I’ve got the creeps just keeping it down there.” Preston shuddered. “We should have killed it.”

Clearly, no one was willing to say Hanock’s name.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be our call.” Mac said delicately. He had his hands between his knees, legs hanging over the edge of a workbench, a cornucopia of parts heaped on either side of him. “We can hold off on doing anything. This doesn’t have to be on us.” He felt fleeting remorse at trying to pass responsibility onto his absent employer, for wasting time and being a sentimental idiot.

Eyes, concerned and confused, landed on him.

“Like hell,” Cait grumbled. “You wanna leave it in there? With all of us sleeping nigh fifty feet away?” 

Mac realized the absurdity of his suggestion. “Look, I’m not saying that we _don’t_ do it _,_ I’m saying that we _wait_.”

Valentine huffed. “For what – tall, dark and cobalt to come riding in and wave a magic wand? Hemming and hawing won’t change the facts.”

“The duck is a duck,” Deacon cut in. “No pretending it isn’t. It’s gotta be handled, and fast.”

Preston nodded. “No disagreeing. We have to put it down.”

Piper cleared her throat. “So, uh…how do we choose who does it? Do we…do we draw straws?”

The Paladin stood with his chin tucked low, brows knitted. Curie was bent over the chemistry station, scribbling notes and paying the forum little mind, a soft breeze ruffling her short hair.

It was too damn nice of a day to have this conversation.

Mac grunted in revulsion. His fingers played absently over the face of his broken watch. The newly minted McDonough-run Diamond City hadn’t procured much in the line of his type of work. Upon arrival, he had been promptly, and discreetly, directed towards Goodneighbor instead. The watch had been a welcoming wedding gift from Hancock, given to Lucy, who had, in turn, given it to MacCready once she had scratched an inscription of sorts into the back with the steel tip of a pin. An _L + RJ_ encased within the rough outline of a heart pressed against the skin of his wrist. _Enjoy the time you’ve got_ , Hancock had said as he handed the bauble to MacCready’s blushing bride. _Best not to dwell on the parts that don’t mean jack._

A queasy feeling churned in his belly.

They were postponing the inevitable.

_Cristmotherfuckershithelldamn._

 “Heck, what are friends for if not for shooting you in the head when times get rough?” Mac spat, shoving off of the workbench. He strode past the lot of them, headed back up the road.

“Wait,” Piper called after him, racing to catch his elbow. She pressed a pistol into his chest. “No need for the big gun.”

His expression was pinched as he took the weapon from her. He turned seething eyes to the crowd. “Jesus…Look at you. Big bunch of heroes. Piper, you’re chiseled out of ice. Nick, I woulda thought that at least you would have had my back – you knew him. And _you_ ,” he signaled to Danse with the barrel of Piper’s gun, spun it and held the grip out to him in offering. “Really? You don’t want to be the one that does it? Isn’t that what you get off on?”

Danse fixed him with a silent furious gaze. “Believe me when I say that this situation brings me no satisfaction,” he finally spoke. His tone was dark and measured. He did not elaborate further nor take the extended gun.

MacCready stood as tall as he could. “Then it looks like I’m tagged in.” He faced away from them and marched, pistol at his side.

Valentine slid into step beside him, a silent reserve player, as they made their way to the cellar. 

Mac stooped to crouch at the doors leading to the cellar, pausing to listen, tattered tails from his duster pooling around his boots. It was eerily quiet. Valentine unlocked the bolt and took hold of the handles. Mac nodded to him and the dilapidated synth cast the doors open.

Mac swung his long legs over the lip and jumped, landing squarely on packed earth. More sensibly, Valentine climbed down the ladder. The scents of damp earth and moldy lumber hung thickly. Padding into the dim, Mac clutched the pistol, clicking off the safety, the small sound amplified. The synth lifted his revolver, mouth in a grim line, braced for the worst.

Hancock remained where they had left him, knees on a mattress in the corner, arms secured overhead. He stirred as Mac and Valentine moved closer with measured steps. A tilt of the brim. Beetle black eyes rose to fix on them.

 “Hey, fellas,” Hancock muttered, voice harsh. “Think you can help a guy out?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: All in Favor, Say Aye
> 
> Oh, MacCready. I'd say that he's the third most important character in this series. I could write Mac's dialogue all day long <3 The natural way that I talk day-to-day is somewhere between MacCready and RedEye.
> 
> I will heartily accept all comments and kudos!


	7. All in Favor, Say Aye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 7: [Postmodern Jukebox - Don't Let Me Down](https://youtu.be/yat6DOwxZ_c/)  
> A nice, old-timey spin on a contemporary song.

NICK

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 22nd, 2287

John kneeled on a mattress, tethered arms held above and behind his head. “Little assistance? This is pretty damn uncomfortable.”

Nick caught MacCready’s eye briefly before reaching to uncuff one John’s hands. The ghoul pulled the restraint from around the cement pole.

“Thanks.”

Nick snatched the loose cuff and nimbly enclosed it around the wheel of a hefty steel safe, sunken into the floor. John’s shoulders drooped.

“Oh.”

“What the fuck was that? I mean – what happened out there?” MacCready snapped.

John was still. He tugged weakly at his manacle. “…did I hurt anyone?”

That’s when pity kicked in. Nick sighed and felt scraps of empathy build. Two monstrosities on borrowed time stood in this cellar.

MacCready finally lowered his gun. “No. Although this might turn into one hell of a big fish story for Deacon.”

Nick loosely crossed his arms and frowned. “You were aware?” The idea was upsetting.

“Maybe? Not really? Was sort of like watching myself from someplace else. I was just…angry. Don’t even know why. Kinda took over.”

Nick watched him without blinking, mechanical brain churning, trying to fit all the pieces together. “This something new?”

“I just…I’m restless. It keeps me up some nights. Been hard to remember things sometimes – where I am, what I was doing. I’m constantly irritated. It wears on me. Slight things, things that don’t really matter – they tip me over the edge.”

“Things like stabbing one of your lieutenants in the street over a paltry squabble?” Nick ventured. “Restless like leaving the sanctity of Goodneighbor on an uncharacteristic whim?”

“Guess word fuckin’ travels…” John sat back on the mattress, one hand reaching into his coat, the other remaining extended and tethered. “So why now? It’s not like I’ve been exposed to anything different and I certainly ain’t been isolated.” John eased a tin box from his pocket.

Nick felt a rush, like electricity turning on a bulb. It all fell into place.

He sprang at John, his slim metal hand seizing the tin of Mentats. “It’s this, you damn doofus. For years, you’ve been forcing your mind into a constant state of overexertion and keeping it there, your irradiated blood pumping more and more toxic energy straight into your brain on a daily basis. When you first got to Goodneighbor, you deliberately shot up that prized transformative substance you found into a body already riddled with Chems. And now, like the idiot you are, you precede to further abuse yourself.”

“Thanks, dad. Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Nick shook the tin of Mentats. “What are you up to? Two boxes daily? Three?”

“…six,” John answered in a low tone. “Sometimes seven.”

Nick sighed, aghast. “Oh, John…” he tsked.

John’s eyes hardened. “Nick, you know why. Yeah, I get high. I get high so I can write for eighteen hours a day. I woke up in that cell in The State House after four days of decomposing and I thought - _fuckin’ rebirth_ , a chance to fix what I could.” He lurched towards Nick but his tethered arm jerked him back. “You think I’ve built what I have by bashing the right heads in? It’s hard and it’s tedious and everyone is too damn illiterate to understand why this is the way it has to be done. Trade agreements and legal accounts and balancing statistics. Christ, it’s just me.” John wavered for an instant before suddenly dropping to sit heavily, coattails fluttering to the ground behind him.  “No one else knows how to do these things. So I take the ‘Tats, and chase ‘em with Jet to come back down and next day the cycle starts all over again.”

Poor John. John, who wasn’t fast or strong, couldn’t hit a barrel with a bullet even if he was in it, was too cripplingly smart for his own good. Functioning as paralegal, accountant, sheriff, and politician had left him with an unending caseload in a world where no one post-war understood these terms.

John harshly jerked at the chain the tethered him, fury mounting to storm in his midnight eyes. “And now I’m a damn animal. Is that it? I did this to myself, so I deserve it? Everything I am, everything I’ve done is gone? I haven’t finished anything yet.” He huffed and shook his head. “And now, as an insult – I’m back? It doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t it stick? Why aren’t I still a vicious, drooling mess?”

“Well, that certainly is the million dollar question, isn’t it?” Nick asked. He indicated with his chin for Mac to follow him back out, leaving John to stare blankly at dirt walls.

They resurfaced to find the entire assembly gathered in Danse’s backyard. Most of them had their arms crossed or hands clasped behind their backs. The further away, practically in the side yard, the Paladin leaned with one hand bracing himself against the wall of his home. Curie had a satchel full of notepapers slung crosswise around her body. She leafed through them as Valentine spoke.

“So, there’s been a development. There was no big bang. Looks like he’s back with us for a while longer. This might start becoming a pattern, though. Buckle up.”

Codsworth’s eye stalks swiveled in surprise. “Mister Hancock has reverted to his former self?”

Cait wrinkled her nose. “What’s he gonna do – switch back and forth between bein’ fangy and not for all eternity? That’s a fat lot of relief.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a shitastic scenario that I want no part of. I mean – that’s no solution. So, question is…how do we fix an infirmed ghoul?” MacCready ventured. “It’d be awesome if we had some kinda high anti-rad, cure-all serum. But we don’t. So that sucks.”

“Non non non.” Curie broke in, rearranging her notes. “This was not a proper metamorphosis. His cognitive functions are impaired. This was, um, how you say, a, a _mimicry_? Temporary. A likely outcome of what eventual circumstances might become…”

“A sneak preview?” Deacon volunteered.

“Oui.”

Curie. Curie and her never-ending quest for answers. How had they forgotten her?  She had been so fascinated by all of them and their differences. They had all given her blood samples to shut her up and keep her busy. Nick had parted with a sliver of polymer skin. He had taken all of her note shuffling and preoccupation as inattentiveness when she was the only one actively searching for a solution. He felt off his game. Curie continued to explain.

“There are only a finite range of symptoms that result from continual exposure to an irradiated element. What he has done to himself – the initial substance Monsieur Hancock injected – It is entirely possible that these properties have compounded and become concentrated in very specific quadrants of his cerebral tissue. Is a… _radiation clog_ …inside of his brain. I do believe that I may have devised such a method as to knock this obstruction free and restore function to normal capacities. I will need very specific elements in order to construct the substance that is required. But this is an extremely time sensitive procedure.”

“Meaning?” Piper questioned.

“Meaning we can’t wait,” MacCready said, mouth turned down. “How long, Curie?”

“Oh. I…well…one day? Perhaps two?”

Nick whistled, long and slow. Not much of a buffer period.

Mac paced, turned, and paced again. He stopped short and jolted ramrod straight. His eyes were bright. “Oh, holy hell. Med-Tek.”

Nick pushed his hat back. “What?”

“Med-Tek! It’s the most advanced research facility in the Commonwealth. One stop shopping for all your curative needs. I just need a, what do you call it...an escort, a convoy, a…” 

“ _Detail_?” Danse offered from his corner.

Mac clapped. “Yes! You know – to back me up. Don’t even have to go through the city. Place is just past Covenant. It’s an easy run.” Mac slapped the back of his fingers into one palm for emphasis.

Preston was grim. “No such thing as an easy run. And not worth us putting our lives on the line.”

“All right, enough of this.” MacCready stamped to one side of the yard. He dragged the toe of a boot through the dirt, creating a line. “Look, I know that this goes against what most of us feel is right. Hell, it sure does for me. Never thought I’d be the sole advocator for some ghoul. But it’s not just some ghoul we’re talking about – it’s Hancock. One of our own. This is about being downright ethical in a world that isn’t fair. Helping people, that’s what we do right? Why we were all brought here? To make a difference? Help me do this.”

Nick gave a tight-lipped smile. All in all, that MacCready was a decent kid. Nick moved to stand beside him, segmented iron fingers uncurling to squeeze Mac’s shoulder supportively.

Deacon meandered to the opposite side of the yard.

MacCready sniffed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Wrapping her arms around her satchel, Curie moved to stand with Mac. Deacon’s brows lowered.

Strong took several weighty steps towards Deacon. “Why humans upset? Should not interfere. Should be proud. Friend will be stronger!”

Piper moved to join Deacon’s group. Nick glared at her.

Codsworth’s torso rotated. He propelled a few feet in either direction, floating and reversing, before coming to a stop amongst Mac’s cluster.

Cait and Preston looked to each other. They made their way to stand on either side of Piper.

It was four versus five.

The Paladin stayed put.

“Oh, come on!” Mac shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

“I’m sorry, MacCready,” Preston said. “We’re not in favor. Risking lives for a ghoul that’s likely to have already turned by the time you get what you need and come back – that really is suicide.”

Danse inhaled sharply and appeared to gather himself.  He removed his hand from the wall and took several vibrating steps nearer to them. “I have my suspicions about this proposal. But that doesn’t mean that I should throw away my vote. You’re right, MacCready – we should be fighting for the greater good. That includes risk, pushing beyond personal preferences, and maintaining what morality we can. Curie,” Danse brought stern eyes to hers. “Can you assure me that your remedy will work?”

“If am to fail at procuring the proper compounds or have somehow miscalculated the amounts and procedures necessary, I will not succeed. He will suffer a final lapse that will become irreversible. This is the best and only option available.” 

Danse was quiet for time, contemplative. Then, he gave a single, curt nod. “We go.”

Five versus five. Tied.

MacCready cocked his head. “Wait – seriously?”

“Yes. Get what you need. We head out in ten. MacCready, you’re on point. Take the lead.”

Danse, MacCready and Curie all broke away, dispersing in separate directions.

Nick looked up at the Paladin as he passed. “How uncommonly big of you.” Danse gave him a firm glance, but kept walking.

Piper materialized at Nick’s side, glowering at him, pinching him in the arm –not that he felt it. “What was that look for? You’re just as much to blame for this as I am,” she whispered defensively.

His coolant boiled and he narrowed his golden eyes. How dare she bring this up _now_. “It was a bad call,” he crustily responded. “I followed the trail that _you_ sent me on. No way to predict just how big the blowback would be. We both uncover secrets, Piper. But, somehow, I’ve made a business of keeping mine. And I plan on making reparations. That’s why I’m going with them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Storyteller
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my jab at the Mysterious Serum. Originally, that was the substance that the group set off after but I, ultimately, deemed that quest way too silly to include in this story. So I inadvertently wrote the end of MacCready's personal quest into the story instead. Made enough sense.
> 
> Please post comments or kudos!


	8. Storyteller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 8: [Dia Frampton - Losing my Religion](https://youtu.be/Kt53mCOurJA/)  
> Another song I searched so long for. A female REM cover? Yes, please. She even sounds like Piper!

PIPER

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 22nd, 2287

Piper trudged down the side yard and around the corner.

Cait sat in the shade of the Paladin’s house, seated on top of the cellar doors, gun balanced on her knees as she lit a cigarette. A slight breeze tousled her auburn hair. Piper paused her approach when she saw the weapon. A shotgun. The perfect choice to down a feral flailing in an enclosed space.

Piper waved her notebook in greeting. “Hey, uh…How’s it goin’ down there?”

“Quiet as houses,” Cait quipped, flipping her lighter closed. “As if houses got rowdy.”

Piper nodded a bit longer than necessary. “Any chance of me sliding in there?”

“You packin’?”

Piper pulled the grip of her handgun from her hip.

“Your funeral, luv.” Cait pursed her lips around her smoke as she stood, placing the shotgun atop dead grass. She brushed her hands against one another and bent to slide her fingers through the handles of the cellar door, prying it open for Piper to enter. Piper took careful steps down the ladder as Cait sealed the doors above her.

John had drawn himself into a corner, seated on the mattress, knees to his chest, one arm around his legs, the other extended towards the safe, still tethered. He was twisting his bound hand within the manacle, towing his arm back towards him, the chain taut. If he pulled on his restraint with any more vigor, the cuff would slide the wasted flesh from his bones. His hat was tilted at such an angle that his face was obscured. She was unsure if he knew she was there.

“I’ve been told that I have an irritated aneurysm,” he stated. “It’s gonna pop and I won’t be me anymore.”

Piper swallowed and gingerly sat on a wooden crate at the foot of the mattress. She gulped her nerves and pulled a pencil from behind her ear.

“I know.”

“Congrats. Send flowers to Goodneighbor after. Big and gaudy like.”

“No, not about your brain.  I know that it’s you. That you used to be John McDonough. I want to write your story.”

The hat slanted in the opposite direction as his neck twisted and he brought dilated, accusatory eyes to meet hers.

“Isn’t this kinda dangerous - You being here with me? And you asking to write a sequel?”

The single oil lamp chose that moment to go out, plunging them into darkness. She rose to light it again. The tiny fame flickered, swelled, and filled the cellar with amber light again.

She noted his hands to avoid his scowl. Rings of various makes and metals had been slid onto every finger but his thumbs. One wasn’t a ring at all, only a hex nut. “Can you tell me why?” she asked, pointing at his fingers.

“Fine. I can play this.” He sat up straighter, leaned in and held up his free hand. “For those swept up in my wake.” He raised a withered fingertip, one by one, as he named them. “My mother, my father, the baby, Stacia” –the bound hand did the same – “Mallory, Garrett, West, _Eliza_.” He practically spat the last name.

Piper’s cheeks burned. She dropped her head. Guilt twisted in her gut. “Oh, geez. John, I – ”

“Stow it. Plenty of people can share that blame. But you’re the one that lit the match.”

She raised her head. He refused to meet her eyes.

It was her mistake. The one piece she had regretting writing. She had no way to know that she would cause an avalanche that Diamond City may never recover from. And now here they were, instigator and victim. Where to draw the line between John McDonough and John Hancock? Where did one end and the other begin? If this was the end for him, had she killed him once, or twice?

A storm of conflicting emotions rumbled across his face. He appeared to border dangerously on the verge of tears before snapping, “It’s too damn much, picking up the pieces that everyone drops so fucking casually. This ain’t who I am. This” – he jangled his chain – “This is somebody else. I am too smart and too damn ambitious to be taken down this way. Like an animal. Like a monster. Like anything that I’ve done means fuck-all. I’m not ready to end.”

The knot drew tighter in Piper’s stomach. He still fixedly observed the floor rather than her, his face cast in shades of misery. He laughed, dry and dour.

”When it finally happens for good,” he asked, “do you think I’ll glow? Maybe that’ll be my prize, what my entire life has led up to.”

She felt as if she might throw up or cry. Maybe both. She stood and crossed back to the ladder. Reaching up, she pounded on the doors. “I’m done now,” she called. “I need out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Long Road Ahead
> 
> Thank you to my amazing Beta, [fangirlanonymous](http://http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/), for all your help with preparing this chapter (and fixing the old ones)!
> 
> This chapter was the start of creating a very intricate history between John, Piper and events that have previously occurred in Diamond City, of which I'll be featuring in flashbacks throughout the series.
> 
> Comment or kudos below!


	9. Long Road Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 9: [French Skyfall](https://youtu.be/iZdBVjzIMSM/)  
> I'm so proud of finding this song! Gorgeous!

CURIE

Middlesex County, MA

November 22nd, 2287

The sun was setting as Curie hopped over a fallen log, brushing bark with gentle fingertips. She smelled flora and the crispness of fall in the air, tinged with traces of scorched ozone. They almost lost the road a few times where it blended into the wilderness. An olive-green messenger bag hung crosswise from her shoulder to her hip, bouncing a little with each step. The satchel was a bit worse-for-wear with aged fabric peeling at the seams. A few grenades were tucked into a side pocket. Her notes were held together by wide spiral binding, the pages time- yellowed and curling. Folders, loose parchment and pencils made up the rest of her gear. She patted the bag reassuringly. There was abnormally little action to record. A lone raider. A few bugs.

The Paladin walked behind them, backwards, scanning the horizon for any disturbances. His laser rifle filled his hands. The sunset cast his armor as if it had been forged in bronze. With his face hidden, he looked rather like a Great War Statue. “Anything?” he called through the speakers of his helmet.

MacCready walked in front, leading the way with one hand over his shoulder, fingers brushing the stock of a rifle that poked from his duffle bag. “Just more nothing.”

They followed the road. Valentine split his time between smoking and studying the Paladin.

“How did you find out about this place?” the Paladin asked, his amplified voice sounding hollow and soulless.

“Just, ya know, around,” MacCready answered. “I mean, heck, the name is stamped on practically every pre-war chem label you can find.”

In the violet hue of dusk, they skirted close to a hospital and a subway station, former hubs that served to support a larger medical community in the area. Curie pulled a page from her satchel and made a note of the location. She flipped through a few folders to stuff the note in its proper file.

“Hold,” the Paladin called. They stopped. “I strongly suggest that we get off the road and make camp for the night. We made good time. Well done. We’ll resume at first light.”

Curie was glad to hear this. Her feet hurt and the sensation was unpleasant. She could see MacCready rolling the shoulder of the arm that had spent the day reaching behind him. But he was smiling. “What’d I say? No problems, right?” he said jauntily.

The beeping of a mutant suicider ruptured the scene.

MacCready’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. That fucking sound.”

Heads turned in all directions, trying to pinpoint the noise. No longer hidden in hospital shadows, three mutants ambled into view, accompanied by a baying hound.

The Paladin snapped his weapon to position and fired several shots in rapid succession, red beams flashing.

MacCready whipped his rifle out of his pack and steadied it. “I guess we’re doing this.” He fired a single round before the Paladin ushered him away.

“Go! I’ll handle these freaks.”

“Are you out of your mind?” MacCready pulled the scope away from his eye. “Take the damn back up!”

“Negative,” the Paladin called, plodding towards the mutants with jolting steps, raising his weapon back to his line of sight. “Get to higher ground.”

“Don’t have to tell me that twice.” MacCready took Curie’s arm, guiding her toward a nearby parking structure.

“There you are,” a flat mechanical voice droned. Two surprise synths were lying in wait at the station entrance between them and the lot. MacCready jumped back, pulling Curie with him and almost out of her shoes. Valentine shouldered past them. His gun rose. “Apropos. These clowns are mine. Get outta here.”

MacCready and Curie made a run for the garage. An explosion further back in the road sent them rocking forward. The suicider had burst. The ground shook and Curie lost her vision for a moment. They stumbled away from the blast, letting it propel them faster. As they made it to the open space of the garage’s entry pavilion, feral ghouls came spilling from darkened eaves and around corners.

 “Aw, man,” MacCready grumbled. “Ferals – the worst kind of surprise.” He spun her around and shoved her towards the parking structure. “Go!” he shouted as her. “Get to the roof!” He dropped his duffle at his feet and took a stance at the garage entrance. She whisked herself away as ferals threw themselves into his line of fire. She heard a staccato of shots being fired below as she ascended to a higher level, feet flying, her satchel bouncing against her hip. The darkness deepened before exploding back into twilight as she found herself on the roof of the parking lot.

There was a crash and the structure shook beneath her feet. Curie ran to the source of the sound, looking down from the ledge. Below her, the Paladin pushed away from the building, leaving an armor-sized dent in the concrete. The hound was on him instantly, attempting to crush his helmet. He rolled with the beast, grabbing it by the jaws, prying the gnashing teeth apart, armored strength extending the jawbones until the skull split with a wet crunch. He tossed the slack animal aside. He strode to a long-rusted fender discarded in the road. In metal-encased hands, he picked it up and swung it, knocking a rapidly approaching mutant in the head with a meaty _fwap_. The connecting impact threw the mutant to one side.

A series of growling snarls rose in volume and proximity. Curie retreated until the backs of her legs touched the ledge. Her hand hovered near the satchel pocket with the grenades. Instead, she grabbed the bag itself. She stood her ground as several rotted bodies swarmed the roof, traveling towards her at full speed, limbs jerking. As the first one reached her, she ducked and swung her full satchel at it. The bag hit it in the side and it went whirling over the side of the building to splatter below. She did the same with another one. The third and final one met its end when she sank her fingernails into the putrefied skin of its head, dancing with it for a moment before spinning it off to join the first two.

She paused, huffing. Gunfire had ceased. She tucked her hair behind her ears and strained to hear any additional carnage. Her steps were light as she wandered back to the first level. “Monsieur MacCready?” she called, wary, analyzing shadows.

“Down here. Somewhere.”

Near to the entrance, two arms swathed in different fabrics waved at her from under a pile of rotted bodies. She could hear the sounds of him struggling to heft weight off of himself. She rushed to his aid, peeling dead ferals away from him. She offered him a hand. He took it, but the slick gore on her fingers caused him to lose his grasp and fall backwards. Propped up on a mound of his victims, he heaved a sigh. “I feel like the piñata at a feral party. Though, luckily, seems like I still have all my innards.” He carefully maneuvered to his feet and wiped dark, syrupy blood from his pants. He retrieved his fallen duffle bag and shook it, fishing a hand around inside.

The Paladin approached, his rifle back in his heads, armor plating loose on one arm and both legs. Valentine was with him. She guessed that Valentine’s damage was mostly superficial as he held his coat open, the faux skin of his belly exposed through his shirt. “Now, that’s what I call an unholy trifecta,” he muttered, poking slender fingers into the holes in his midsection. “Muties, ferals _and_ robots.”

MacCready let out an inhuman squall.

Valentine cocked his head. “You okay there, partner? You sound like you’re losing your mind.”

“ _Damn_. Shucks.” MacCready said, rummaging through his duffle bag. “I’d say that was my favorite ammo, but that was my only ammo.”

“How are you out?” the Paladin demanded, stalking over to him.

“They took everything I had! Cleaned me out! Look!” He held up the bandoliers that were normally secured around his body. The belts had been slashed and the ammunition lost. Even his hat was without its accoutrements. “Nobody warned me about a pre-slaughter.”

“Not quite the _easy run_ you toted earlier,” Valentine grumbled. Coolant dripped in single droplets between his feet. Curie feared his damage was more extensive than she previously assumed.

The Paladin stood straighter, fists clenching. “We have to leave. Now. We’ve underprepared for another assault.” A steely authority had taken root in his voice, the words spoken too tersely. The Paladin exhaled loudly. “We need to resupply and take stock.”

“There’s a settlement nearby,” MacCready said. “I mean, you know – settlement, safehouse, whatever.”

“Can you lead us there?”

“Leading is apparently my sole job today.” MacCready stuffed his rifle back into his bag and turned back towards the road with Valentine in tow. Evening had fallen and the purples of nightfall had given way to blues. Curie went to follow, pausing to look back at the Paladin. He cast a lingering glace at a building that clearly said _Med-Tek_ on the marquee before turning away. Splayed, metal feet caused the earth the tremble as he joined them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Catalyst
> 
> While doing research for this chapter, I walked from Sanctuary to Med-Tek and the characters encounter exactly what I did :) This chapter was also super fun to write.
> 
> Thank you to [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/) again!
> 
> Comments are always welcome!


	10. Catalyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 10:[Depeche Mode: Enjoy The Silence (Denmark + Winter- Re:Imagined)](https://youtu.be/HDeTEMNLcmc/)  
> "Words are very unnecessary...they can only do harm..."

PIPER

Sanctuary Hills Root Cellar, MA

November 22nd, 2287

Piper had taken a few hours to gather herself before she returned. This time she brought a bit more empathy with her. And a bribe. She flashed a box of Mentats at John once they were alone again. He surprised her by shaking his head. “Clarity is _not_ what I need right now. But I’d happily take a bottle of moonshine if you had one on you.”

“Fresh out.” She stood of the foot of the mattress. He was still handcuffed by one hand to the safe wheel. “I just wanted to say that, well, I’m sorry about the article. It wasn’t really about you.” She pulled at the fingers of her gloves. “Well, I mean, it was about _you_ , but it wasn’t, ya know, personal.”

“That’s what I keep hearing.”

“It was human interest. The people wanted to know.”

“It was gossip. That’s why it sold.”

It had been Piper’s first article for _Publick Occurrences_ \- a catalyst that had chronicled several acts of insanity that had ultimately cost John McDonough everything. Had he been allowed to keep his secrets, she imagined that a lot of people would be leading very different lives. She could only feel so remorseful. She wasn’t sorry for being hungry and clutching onto the first big story that came her way. Guy McDonough had been bulletproof; no evidence or speck of dirt marred his record. So she had taken a different approach – discredit the McDonough name by highlighting the follies of the more popular younger brother instead. She had gone to Valentine, enticing him find a source close to the brother of the shady mayoral candidate that would talk with her. It had cost her entire life savings, an investment that swiftly matured. Within a week, she and her sister had gone from sleeping on mats under the stands to buying her own home office. Every household in Diamond City had purchased at least one copy of her inaugural article. She hadn’t written anything that successful until Blue had come along.

“Where did you get the drug? You know – the one that made you ripply.”

“More questions, huh? I guess I should expect that.” He shrugged and half-heartedly tossed a small rock against the wall of the cellar. It _pinged_. “Some hush-hush place in the west. My agents found it in some wreckage off the coast. Thought it’d be fitting – not leaving enough of myself behind to recognize. I could disappear.” 

“But that’s not how I happened right? You ended up living through it.” She pulled her notepad out. “You died and came back different.”

He threw her with an incredulous look that made her feel like an idiot. “I’m not a damn zombie. What are you – out of a Vault? How can you have lived your whole life in the Wastes and still know neither jack nor shit about Ghouls?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been inclined to care.”

He sighed, making an annoyed sound. “Fine. Try and follow.” He leaned towards her, fixing her with his indecipherable eyes. “If you’re a human grape then I’m a raisin. We burn hot. Not in the sexy way – I’m talking temperature-wise. It’s in the Rads. Uses up a lot of fluid, you see. Dries us out. Makes our blood thicker, throats drier. S’why we sound the way we do. Can’t hardly spit. My knees hurt. My joints hurt. Maybe I’d bawl about it, if I could. But the best I can hope for is an itch in my eye. We can’t cry, we can’t sweat. It’s really damn uncomfortable.”

“So…you’re just a dehydrated version of you?”

He leaned away from her and his posture dropped into a dejected pose. “You got a gift of making my life sound like garbage, don’t you?”

“I…Sorry. I guess I get stuck in a mode. Can you start at the beginning?”

“Beginning of what? My skin sloughing off in Goodneighbor? Even you know that nobody wants to hear that. The beginning of the beginning? Is that want you want?”

“Call it a morbid curiosity,” Piper said. “I wanna know where it all started.”

“Suit yourself. I’m not going anywhere.” John tried to sit up straight but was hindered by his manacled hand. He leaned his free arm on one knee instead. “I think the day I was born was the worst day of my brother’s life. Fifteen years between us, you know. My folks could finally afford to move outta Diamond City and make their way to Liberty Isle, New York. Real exclusive place – only five families were there. Safe, Upper Bay surrounding us on all sides, plus a nice, solid statue to live in. Soon as he could, though, Guy moved right back to the Great Green Jewel. So, it was just my folks and me.” He paused and raised a brow ridge at her. “Gonna need a cigarette for the rest of this.”

Piper fumbled to light him one. He took a lengthy drag and continued.

“Rad hurricane came through in the mid ‘60s. Contaminated everything. Whole island came down with Rad Fever. I had it for three months, spent the whole time in bed. My folks…they didn’t make it.”

Piper wanted to apologize but held her tongue. She had a feeling that the story was about to get worse.

“Guy sent word, asking me to come up, but I just wanted things to stay normal, as normal as they could be. I looked after myself, kept up with schooling, and had no troubles.” He stopped smoking. The cigarette hung from his fingers, molten red tip fading. “Then, when I was seventeen, I got a girl in trouble.” He fixed his eyes on hers. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Piper had long stopped writing. She nodded.

“Stacia. She never told anyone. Just me. Soon after, she just…disappeared. No reason. No note. Well, I panicked, the whole island panicked, and her brother and I thought it our responsibility to find her. We left Liberty Isle, young and stupid, not knowing where to start looking.” He shook his head, cigarette still forgotten. “That damn city. No way could we have ever been prepared for New New York. Mallory – her brother – he was strong, though. Got us through it, me adding little to nothing to our quest. Took months til we finally found a trail. Turns out, she took off to get rid of it – the baby, I mean. But situations being as they are in the Wastes, she died too. There was no damn reason to stay out there anymore. So Mal and I, we headed home.”

Piper recalled the associations that he had given his rings.

John brought the cigarette back to his lips, seemed momentarily confused as to why it had burned down and flicked the butt across the cellar. He traced his teeth with his tongue and kept talking. “Was kinda inevitable, ya know, that we’d stumble across nothing less than a Super Mutant hive within days. I remember…I remember Mal screaming, calling out my name as he was torn apart. Begging me to do something, to save him, to shoot him, to put him out of his misery. But I hid.” He turned his face to her with a grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I hid while my friend was eaten. That’s what kind of man John McDonough was. Part of why he had to die, why I had to make sure he was gone forever.”

Piper, silent as the stars, looked at him with trepidation overflowing in her eyes. She felt awful. Not just for herself, but for him as well. She had deliberately made the decision to attack the more vulnerable, younger McDonough in the vague hope that it would enrage the older one into making a mistake that she could capitalize on. It dawned on her that perhaps she had a responsibility to do no harm in her reporting. Too little, too late.

She moved to sit beside him. He traced a finger around a tear in the knee of his trousers, picking at threads. “Make sure Mac looks after Goodneighbor, will ya? Hate to think that the whole place might come apart when I go.”

She leaned over him, taking her hand from her pocket. She took his bound hand and turned it. Her other hand found the keyhole in the cuff. Nick hadn’t noticed when she had filched the key from him. With the tiniest click, the cuff unlocked. She leaned away and stood up. It was the only amount of dignity that she could give back to him.

John had brought his newly freed hand up to form a fist over his chest. He then placed it on the packed earth of the cellar and reached out with the other hand to flick the radio on. He lay back on the mattress, fingers lacing over his chest, boots crossing at the ankles, serene and accepting eyes fixing on the ceiling.

Piper left him like that.

She had a retraction to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Get to Work
> 
> Thank you, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!
> 
> A million points to whomever can figure out where it is that I'm insinuating John got that transformative drug from :)  
> And I totally stole the plot to Spring Awakening. You're welcome.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!


	11. Get to Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Chapter 11:  
> [Story of My Life (Piano/Cello Cover) - ThePianoGuys](https://youtu.be/yET4p-r2TI8/)  
> What an uplifting cover. Mac, always trying to do better....

MACCREADY

Middlesex County, MA

November 22nd, 2287

Moonlight broke through the woven branches above, sending white lights to dapple through the fractured panes of glass and onto the water below. MacCready brought the hammer down, straitening the pipe. The gauge wiggled, threatening to come free, and Mac made a face of annoyance. Glue took forever to dry. He wiped at his brow with a dirty sleeve. He was tired but he didn’t think that he would get another chance to work on this. Curie had left him very specific schematics.

It was a tranquil night; the water beneath the boathouse workshop was calm. Even so, Mac was happy to have an affiliate that required no sleep. A hastily patched Valentine patrolled the perimeter of Taffington while the other three had split into separate tasks. Danse had taken up shop on the first floor of the house to attend to his armor and Curie had disappeared upstairs to fine-tune a list of necessary ingredients, leaving Mac to build and replenish his ammo stores.

The side door to the house creaked, opening and closing, and was followed by the twang of the boathouse screen door being pulled ajar. Mac cast a glance over his shoulder. Danse had exited his armor and racked it, leaving him clad only in his orange interface suit. He was grasping a bottle of vodka by the neck, procured from somewhere in the house. “What is that god-awful thing?” the Paladin asked, gesturing at MacCready’s work with the bottle as he approached.

Danse had caught him making modifications to a rudimentary-looking rifle with a pressurized release, a gauge, a scope, and a long, wide pipe barrel. Ballistic ammo casings with empty barrels were stacked next to it. It looked cheap and stupid compared to his standard rifle, which sat, cleaned, in his duffle on the wood floor. Mac hefted the new rifle one-handed. It was lightweight and mostly rusted. “I call it _Oh Shit, Just in Case_.” Mac smirked at the title. “Maybe I should patent it? Could be my big ticket. Rake in the caps.” He set the rifle back down. “Curie’s idea. Just in case things go south in a big way.”

Danse nodded but his eyes were unfocused and Mac sensed that he was preoccupied. Mac hefted the hammer again and said, “Why don’t you get some shut eye? We’re gonna need you to lead the charge tomorrow.” He landed another blow to the pipe barrel.

“It’s unlikely that I will sleep tonight. Besides, I’ll return to finishing my armor repairs shortly.”

Mac delivered a final smash with the hammer. The pipe was as straight as it was going to get. He looked back over his shoulder at the Paladin. “I have to ask the obvious – why did you agree to help? I’m surprised that you didn’t crack Hancock’s head open the moment he growled at you.”

Danse swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the thin fabric of his hood. He took a swig from the bottle before answering. “I realize that my inaction was a foolish thing. I…may have made an error by supporting this venture.”

Fury sparked and Mac threw the hammer into the open water of the boathouse. It tumbled head over handle before it made a feeble splash and sank. “High holy hell, Danse,” he snapped. “Have you ever given half a damn about anyone in your whole entire life?”

Danse’s dark eyes suddenly held thunder. “My relationships are none of your concern. The mission matters, our very lives matter. My history does not play a factor in events that unfold.”

Mac had his back to the weapons workbench, the heels of his palms behind him on the lip of the table. “Not everything is that damn grave, Danse. You keep who you are balled up and secreted away. You’ve made there be a hell of a difference between you and anyone else. Do you even have a real name?”

“Of course I have a _real name_.”

“I mean a first one. It seems ridiculously official for us to keep saying your last name, especially when we aren’t your soldiers.”

Danse’s mouth twisted with displeasure. “It’s _Daniel_.” It looked as though it pained him to separate with that information.

“Fuck – I mean, fudge.” Mac smirked. “Your name is _Dan Danse_? No wonder you drink.”

“I would highly prefer for you to keep using my formal name. I’m used to it.”

Nope. There was no breaking down this wall.

Mac pushed off of the workbench. “Well, I’m packing it in.” _Enjoy staying up, getting drunk and being sour_ , Mac wanted to add. “Night.” He pulled the door of the boathouse open and tramped into the house.

Upstairs, Curie was asleep at a desk, arms folded over papers, her mouth softly open. Mac happily took the bed for himself and toed off his boots. He tugged the brim of his hat over his eyes and slept.

They took a cautious approach and left for their destination after the sun had fully risen. The Med-Tek Research facility turned out to be a nondescript green and white building with its only distinguishing feature being a dried out fountain by the front gate.

Valentine frowned beneath his hat. “Forgive me, but I’m underwhelmed.”

Curie looked to the silent structure of Med-Tek and shivered. “There is no telling what we will be finding inside of this place.”

They entered through the front doors, one by one, not with apprehension.

Inside, halogen bulbs still shone brightly, washing the interior with warm amber light. Mac was thankful to RobCo for their insight to create lasting hardware.

“I feel like this is the beginning of a bad joke,” Valentine mused. “A tin can, a synth, a sniper and a mechanical man walk into a lobby…”

Danse stowed his helmet. Mac guessed that turning the headlamp on would have acted as a beacon, drawing whatever nasties there were straight to them as they pressed deeper into the building. Danse’s human eyes would have to adjust to the dimness instead, just like the rest of them.

Mac readjusted his grip on his rifle, flexing his fingers. “All right. Here’s to finding those labs. Any chance we’ll get lucky?”

A hissing growl carried from past the front desk.

He propped his rifle against his shoulder. “I had to ruin everything by saying that, didn’t I?”

They braced, weapons raised. Curie huddled behind them.

A feral ghoul hurled itself from the shadows.

Mac exhaled slowly.

It was time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Descent
> 
> Thank you, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!
> 
> Comments or kudos, anyone?  
> Any guesses as to what it is that Mac was building?


	12. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song playing on the radio at the beginning of this chapter: [Seven Nation Army - Postmodern Jukebox](https://youtu.be/sB6HY8r983c/)  
> Another old-timey cover. God bless PostModern Jukebox.

CAIT

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 23rd, 2287

Cait leaned against the peeling lead paint of the house’s exterior and stretched her legs out. Several chips flaked off as she moved. Although it was late morning, it was also late fall and the steel doors that she sat on were cold against her ass.

A goddamned inconvenience was what this was.

She lit a cigarette, cupping her hands until the tip smoldered. Pocketing the lighter, she drew a deep drag. She puffed out a long plume of white smoke.

Maybe raiders had gotten it right. They weren’t heroes. They didn’t waste their time on a lost cause. It wasn’t about caps or karma; Cait wanted simplicity. Fight or die were the options that she was most comfortable with. Here in Sanctuary, goals were muddled. She could easily distinguish when someone had met their fate and she had no wish to engage in an emotional argument over it. No one could ever accuse Cait of being unduly sentimental. All this fuss over keeping watch over a condemned man irritated her.  She didn’t owe anyone anything. She had complied for little reason other than to separate herself from the rest of the group.

The sawed-off shotgun she balanced over her knees had been Hancock’s. It jostled as she shook her ankle. She wished she had taken a hit of Psycho instead of settling for a fag.

When she had relieved him at first light, Preston had mentioned having listened to radio tunes all night. Cait recalled it turning on during Piper’s visit. Melody still played, drifting up from the cellar, notes so faint that she couldn’t make out the song.

There was a muffled bang from within the cellar and the radio stopped playing.

She pulled the filter from her lips looked down at the closed access. She waited until the racket grew before fiddling with the latch and flinging one door open. The shotgun was instantly raised, her finger on the trigger.

The cellar had been destroyed. He had pulled down the rack, crushed wooden boxes by hurling them at the walls, and tossed cinder blocks across the room to explode into powder. The mattress was ripped and eviscerated, white stuffing littering the ground. The radio lay smashed in a corner. How he had gotten free, she couldn’t guess. His shoulders were bunched as he swung can after can to, each in turn, either bounce or explode against a wall. Was he yelling or growling? It was hard to tell. “Hell,” she muttered. “Hancock, if you’re in there at all you had bloody well better freeze.”

The remaining cans fell from his fingers to clatter at his feet. He clutched at his lapels, rocking forward, still screaming, or maybe snarling. He spun and moved his hands to clasp over his hat, head dipped low.

She shifted her weight and sank to one knee, shotgun still trained on him. She pumped the weapon. The sound of it seemed to jar him.

“Wait,” he yelped. “Wait!” He raised one hand, then the other. “Just…stay fuckin’ there,” he ordered, breathless.

Cait kept her aim true.

He finally fell to his knees in the square of light spilling in from the opened door. He gripped at his elbows and slowly lowered his face down into the hollow created between his forearms and chest, a pitiful ball. His head nearly touched his knees.

Still tense, muscles burning from her crouch, she made a frustrated grunt. She lowered the barrel and stood.

His brief decent back into madness had only strengthened her views. This farce was ludicrous.

Cait emptied the rounds in the chamber of the shotgun with sharp efficiency. The shells flipped over her shoulder. She extended an arm to drop the shotgun at his feet with a dusty _plop_. She stooped to gather a single shell from among whips of weeds, which she tossed into the cellar as well. It clattered and rolled somewhere out of sight.

He looked up.

“C’mon then,” she snapped. “Spare us. Handle it yourself.”

His soulless black eyes looked bottomless as he started at her.

She closed the door and locked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Mercy
> 
> Poor [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous//) is practically my slave at this point. Sorry that I write so fast!
> 
> I struggled with Cait for so long to find her motivation. Ultimately, I'm very happy with where she's going to end up in the series :)
> 
> Let me know how I did in the comment section!


	13. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 13: [2Cellos - Smells Like Teen Spirit](https://youtu.be/jcUsW8HgLBY/)  
> Roll into battle with some cello-Nirvana! Rok.

NICK

Med-Tek Research, MA

November 23rd, 2287

The décor was pleasingly rounded, an aesthetic intended to evoke feelings of comfort. Perhaps the design would have fulfilled its purpose had the surfaces not being painted with blood and covered in debris.

Having reloaded, Nick spun the cylinder on his revolver and snapped it shut. There was never a solitary surge of enemies; foes tended to emerge like waves crashing on a shore.

In front, MacCready’s new gun bounced on his back, his old sniper rifle in his hands as he led them through the corridors. The group passed a sealed airlock trying to keep something nasty out…or in.

 As they crowded up a tight flight of stairs, more ferals came down on them from an upper level. Trapped in the narrow stairwell, they used their guns to batter instead of shoot, popping heads against walls. As he was sprayed in the face with gelatinous feral blood, Nick caught the irony of fighting _through_ ghouls to save one.

They spilled into a larger room with two levels **.** Nick spied movement on the upper balcony as gnarled bodies rushed past. Danse and MacCready stood tall, firing into the higher areas as Nick picked off the ferals that broke though. Cleared, Mac led the group further up and further in.

They crowded into one of the upper offices. “Curie?” Nick asked, checking her status. She nodded, eyes bright, satchel clutched tight to her chest.

Mac elbowed them aside. “Move move move.”  He bent over a terminal, typed in a series of passwords, tongue tracing his upper lip. “Thank God. Okay.” He stood and readjusted his shoulder strap. “The lower levels should be unlocked.”

Nick cocked a brow. “Should?”

“Yeah, _should_. I’m not a lab geek, okay?” Mac patted the terminal. “It says _yes_. Have no way to guess what kind of dungeony-hellpit might be between us and there, though.”

Following Mac, they ventured back downstairs, all the way back to the airlock. This seemed like a foolhardy idea. Again, Mac accessed the terminal. “You seem to know a hell of a lot about this place for not being a lab geek,” Nick noted.

“Aw, you’re sweet.”

The airlock system remained dead and broken. But the doors worked just fine **.** And the alarms.Security systems whirred to life. Danse remarked on the high level of security. “Something important was kept here,” he said, eyes widening. It was the first time Nick could recall the Paladin looking hopeful. His expression hardened again when they heard the grumbling moans that were unmistakably ghoul.

As they stepped forward to engage, the Paladin’s suit started clicking. _Radiation._ Danse jerked his head curtly towards the end of the hall, gesturing at them to move quickly.

MacCready slid from terminal to terminal as they moved, single-handedly unlocking sealed doors as he held onto his rifle.

They continued to carve a path through ferals and up another hallway. Lights flashed, sirens hooted warnings. Time stretched as they lived in a world of teeth, claws, weaving hallways and the steady tick of the Paladin’s Geiger counter.

They came to a section with a collection of thrashing ferals locked within research rooms. No telling how long they had been there. One roared through the glass, clawing at a window inches from the Paladin’s face. Its teeth knocked against the glass, rotted skin leaving faint smears of gore as it slid across the pane, vacant eyes unfocused. The feral must have been a tall man a lifetime ago to be level with the suited Paladin. Danse stopped to watch it, brow creased, expression indecipherable.

MacCready was at an elevator, its doors scraping with a sharp sound as they opened. “Let’s go.” He, Nick and Curie slipped inside.

The Paladin remained enraptured by the feral.

“Leave it, rust bucket,” Nick ordered.

Danse tore himself away and joined them. The rusted doors ground, metal on metal, as they closed. They rode through a small tubular elevator shaft, beams of light washing over them with each level they passed.  Elevator music chimed softly as they shuffled. It was a short trip. The elevator pinged as it jerked to a stop. The doors opened. They filed out of the elevator and came around a corner, revealing another multi-leveled area.

MacCready threw up his hands in frustration, shaking his rifle. “Who designs this crap?”

Nick sighed and raised his weapon. “I feel like we know the drill by now.”

Lying in wait, ferals popped out of random corners, crawling into rooms from cracks in fallen ceiling tiles, and emerging from piles of rubble. They fell into more of the same dance – flying bullets, laser beams and guts, punctuated by wailing alarms. Danse disabled the security, firing overhead while Nick and Mac cleared the ferals. Pieces of turrets and alarm boxes rained down as they pressed forward, through twisting corridors and down staircases.

Finally, silence. The men paused to congratulate themselves, nodding to one another.

There came a single growling wail. A solitary glowing feral tore around a corner and into sight. Curie elbowed past them, tossing a single grenade that ended the glowing one in a shower of florescent matter that splattered the area. They blinked at her as she picked luminescent goo from her hair.

Mac wandered to a terminal lodged on a wall and worked whatever magic he had been using throughout Med-Tek. A set of double doors slid open. Curie, Danse and Nick ventured inside. Mac didn’t join them.

“Wait here,” Mac said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“ _MacCready_ –” Nick turned, but the young man’s ragged duster had already disappeared around a corner. He turned his attention back to the laboratory. A massive radiation chamber shared the room with them. The Paladin’s suit continued to ping warnings.

Curie threw herself into a search for anti-irradiates, popping open containers, skimming over counters and rummaging through drawers. She slammed a cabinet door shut. “Non,” she huffed. She looked around and strode pointedly to the center of the room. She released a valve on the radiation chamber. The Paladin shoved her away from it as air rushed to escape. She shook her head. “Thee substance that we have come for – it will be within this pod. I am certain.” With some hesitation, the Paladin stepped aside and let her continue. Inside, within a sealed compartment, sat several vials. She pried the entire collection out of the cavity and deposited it on a lab table. The Paladin slammed the chamber door closed. It spit flumes of air and resealed.

Curie cooked the remedy right there in the lab, balancing on a chair with three legs. It took an unordinary amount of time. Hours crawled by. Nick and Danse stood watch on either side of the double doors.

During that period, Mac returned, smiling, zipping his gun bag closed. “Happy birthday to me. Something finally went right.”

“Ya find what you needed?” Nick grumbled, annoyed that the sniper had left them for so long.

“Yup.” Mac grinned, oblivious to Nick’s annoyance. He filed past him and into the lab. Nick followed.

Curie finally blew out a breath of relief, the puff raising her bangs momentarily, and sat back in her chair, nearly tipping it. She held up a single vial glowing with azure radiance.

“Well, I’ll be. That’s it then?” Nick asked, leaning over her.

“Oui. I do believe that this will be how we shall assist Monsieur Hancock.”

They went out the same way they had entered, climbing back into the elevator again.

As they unloaded, Danse paused to reevaluate the same lab-feral from before. Nick had to crane his neck to even see it. Still trapped behind glass, it had lain down in a corner, waiting for either salvation or death.

“Wait,” Danse instructed. He reeled back and broke the glass with his metal-encased fist. He forced the tip of his rifle through the hole in the window and fired, painting the holding cell’s walls with dark blood.

It was a small mercy, atypical for his faction.

Danse turned away, brows lowered, mouth set in a hard line, and marched in rumbling steps down the hallway, continuing their escape from the complex.

They pushed the front doors open to be greeted by waning daylight. The sun hung too low in the west, touching the horizon.

“Let’s go,” the Paladin urged, moving past them to take the lead. “We’ve wasted too much time already. No stopping tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Evolution
> 
> Woo. This chapter took its toll on me. I tried to make it very close to how the gameplay runs, taking few liberties. We're almost at the climax of Season 1!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!
> 
> What did you think of the detail in this chapter? Let me know in the comments!


	14. Evolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 14 and all of Season 1: [Radioactive - Lindsey Stirling and Pentatonix](https://youtu.be/aE2GCa-_nyU/)  
> Too perfect. Even the video looks like it was filmed in Sanctuary.

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills Root Cellar, MA

November 24th, 2287

They came from the northeast.

There was no alarm, no warning shots fired from the turrets. It was the smell that woke him. Rot and gore and something bordering on familiar. He found it odd that he had never noticed it before.

The lantern’s flame had burned down to the wick, inconsequential to his eternally dilated eyes. The faintest shafts of pale blue light framed the cellar door.

A single deep, resounding twang from a laser musket echoed.

John shoved himself to his feet and hopped up the ladder, clinging to it as he pressed his ear canal to the cool steel door. John could hear them plainly, nearly making out intent in rumbles and screeches.

A steady wail rumbled into existence. Someone had activated the siren.

John dropped back down to the ground. He scooped the single shell Cait had left him off of the dirt floor, loaded it, and pumped the shotgun. He sucked and blew a quick breath then reached to press the barrels flush against the cellar door. He fired and was knocked onto his back by the blast. Round shafts of daylight spilled down over him. Still holding the gun, he stepped onto the ladder and banged a fist on the doors. They flopped partially open and closed again. He hopped up the rest of the steps, throwing his elbow sharply into the doors. They fell open.

It was very early morning. A swarm of ferals crested the hill into Sanctuary Hills, a pinkish dawn to their backs. A dozen rushed past him, ignoring his presence. One of the final ones slowed as it drew near. It hissed at him, withered skin drooping under its eye sockets. Strips of flesh hung from the exposed jaw, teeth clicking in contemplation as it examined him. Its dead eyes glowed golden.

 _This is where I go,_ a voice from John’s memories remarked, an echo from the past. _My evolution._

Dogmeat rushed into the yard, snarling and snapping as he hunkered down onto his outstretched front legs. The feral swung its head and pursued the baying shepherd instead, taking swipes at the dog as he led it away.

“Good boy,” John muttered.

John charged around the house and into the street. A cloud of flame billowed across the road as the robotic butler attempted to staunch the swarm. The blaze cut John off, forced him to alter course, cutting through gardens and leaping fences, rushing to put himself in front of the attack. Not a single feral engaged him. He wove a path through them, throwing himself into the thick of the assault. Without ammunition, he used his shotgun as a club, smashing rotted skulls to pulp and cracking them in their chests and backs. He had trouble catching his breath. A strange sensation strained his chest.

A bullet flew past his cheek and caused a feral’s forehead to explode. John followed the trajectory up to the roof of a nearby house. Deacon reloaded and continued to fire into the throng. John kept charging a path through the development, which had become a whirlwind of flame, live fire, and claws. 

He nearly collided with Piper as they both came tearing around opposite sides of a house. A trio of ferals were nearly on her. She shoved one away and unloaded several rounds of her firearm into the other. John butted the one she had pushed in the head with his shotgun. He hefted his knife, gripping it by the point and threw it. Steel flashed a reflection of growing daylight, a single burst of white light, as it spun before embedding into the back of the final feral. Piper whirled in her faded red coat and John found himself looking down the barrel of her gun. She gasped as she noticed him. He retrieved his blade. “Up!” he shouted, shoving her, pointing to the roofs.

At the entry to town, a heap of ghouls hung from the Strong’s limbs. The mutant’s own roars drowned out theirs as they massed him, their sharp claws and rotted teeth ripping his flesh and exposing his intestines. Strong staggered and tossed a few combatants off of him as he fell. John stopped and stared at the scene as they began to eat the mutant, choking down ragged mouthfuls of mottled green meat.

Preston and Cait had managed to get atop the roofs of two houses – Piper’s and his – at the entry leading in from the bridge. Turrets finally emptied at the mouth into the suburb, chugging defeatedly without ammunition. The siren still keened, adding to the bedlam.

Abandoning the fallen carcass of the mutant, the ferals were splitting, no longer in groups, trying to climb onto the houses. John continued to whip his shotgun at ragged bodies, keeping them from gaining enough purchase to scramble up the houses. He was loose limbed and clumsy now, missing more often than connecting. His heart was pumping hard and fast, like a sack full of angry snakes in his chest threatening to burst through his ribs. He held his shotgun out in front of him, hands clasping it level as he attempted to use his weight to drive ferals back in clumps. His body was very warm. He felt stifled, pressurized; he couldn’t get enough air. He looked down at the weapon in his hand then glanced around him, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

The world swam sickeningly before his eyes. He still clung to his weapon. He didn’t know why.

It was too difficult, like fighting underwater, drowning. His grip on his gun tightened as he was swallowed by oblivion. Colors flashed and melded behind his eyes.

Red.

Black.

Nothing.

Only the throb of emerald rage. 

No solution.

No.

One solution.

Destroy it all.

Rip it apart.

He snarled. It sounded eerie, even to his ears.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The World on Fire
> 
> I had a herd of Deathclaws randomly charge into in Sanctuary once (from the northeast), which inspired some of the chaos in this chapter. And I totally just killed off Strong. Companion death #1.
> 
> Thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!
> 
> How was this chapter? Please comment or kudos!


	15. The World on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 15: [Let It Be - The Beatles - Michael Henry & Justin Robinett Cover](https://youtu.be/09kP75xHdBM/)  
> To be honest, I had a completely different song set to go. Then, I found this uber sad countryesque cover and had to use it.

DANSE

Old North Bridge, MA

November 24th, 2287

It was daybreak, gilded light setting the world on fire. The sunbeam emblem on the entry sign seemed to shine in the distance.

Coming up from Red Rocket, Danse’s group rounded the curve in the road to find bedlam erupting in Sanctuary. The siren wailed a constant whine. The pale figures of feral ghouls were sliding between the houses, attempting the climb the walls. Preston and Cait could be seen on two of the roofs, firing down at the wretched creatures.

As Danse stepped onto the Old North Bridge, he signaled for his group to rush in and assist.

MacCready had already evaporated into the dawn. Curie hung back, clutching her satchel, cowering behind one of the stone towers that flanked the bridge, head ducked. Valentine opened a barrage of bullets as fast as he could reload, crossing the bridge as he fired. Danse remained at a safe distance, neatly picking off the remaining ferals with precise shots.

The siren stopped abruptly. His ears rang in the silence. Faint sounds returned – Dogmeat barking, the rush of the brook, the breeze in the trees, and a sharp, grating sound coming from the entry to the development.

Danse watched a lone, hunched ghoul in a long red coat drag a limp shotgun. The piercing sound was from the sawed off barrel scraping the pavement. John’s body was framed by the development sign as the tricornered head rose. As the ghoul snarled at him from across the bridge, he found it impossible to tell whether or not the eyes had shifted from black to gold.

His heart beat painfully hard, causing blood to rush in his ears. He slowly raised a hand, as if to calm a rabid dog.

There was a moment he had forgotten somewhere, a juncture where there had been another possibility, that the atrocities in both their lives might have been spared. Danse felt he might know exactly when that point was. He felt shame.

Danse had not been certain that it was him. Not initially. Then again, in his estimation, all ghouls tended to share the same face. It was that damn flag that had given him away. The steady stream of Calmex delivered to his door had only solidified his suspicions. Accepting the comments, meant to attack, and the gifts, meant to appease, had both hurt equally.

“John…” he breathed, knowing that the sound would not carry.

There came the crack of a gunshot and John’s head whipped to the side, spinning him, knocking him backwards to crumble in the road.

Danse felt his blood drain. A jagged “ _No!”_ tore at his throat.

A cold sensation crept down his limbs and he caught himself sprinting. He released the airlocks on his suit mid-stride, pausing to swing out of the armor, spin and keep running. The soles of his bodysuit struck heavily on the wooden slots of the bridge, sending jolts up his shins. He vaguely noted passing Preston and Cait as he tore by, guns still smoking in their hands. Reaching the fallen ghoul’s side, he threw himself to one knee, heartbeat pumping ice through his veins. He grabbed John by the shoulder and rolled him, bracing for blood and brains, stomach knotted.

A syringe poked from the meaty part of John’s neck, its barrel empty. Danse grasped it and pulled, sharp metal shaft sliding out. Dumbstruck, he glanced over his shoulder. Everything had slowed down. He caught Curie rushing towards him, shouting. MacCready had burst from concealment on the opposite side of the river, Minuteman statue at his back. The young man scrambled over the bridge, duster sailing out behind him, blue eyes wide, _Oh Shit, Just In Case_ gripped in one hand, muzzle down and faintly trailing white smoke. Danse’s suit stood abandoned on the bridge, sunlight spilling over the plating in shimmering waves. Beside it, Valentine stood studying him, a thumb pushing the brim of his hat up.

Danse rocked backwards, seating himself heavily. Adrenaline pooled with nowhere to go. In shock, he put his head in his hands. The world was silent. He couldn’t hear. He felt like he was falling, nauseous.

He reached back down to pull the ghoul into his lap and hung his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Safe Travels
> 
> Ha! I actually wrote the opening and the title before I made the connection to the Fallout 3 into. Weird how that worked out. I had all the feels while writing this.
> 
> Thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!
> 
> Any questions or comments? Please ask below in the comment section!


	16. Safe Travels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song playing on Wasteland Radio : [My Heart Will Go On - PostModern Jukebox](https://youtu.be/oyiWQ3l66Nk/)  
> Another song I can picture on the radio. (I think it's hilarious)

DANSE

Alexandria, VA

September 19th, 2277

The night air was hot and humid. Summers in Virginia could be particularly unkind.

Danse wiped sweat from his brow. He tucked his shirt into his pants, smoothing out any wrinkles. The other man had gone back inside, leaving Danse to struggle over what had just occurred. Fornicating in a back alley was not his proudest moment. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel now. Better? Worse? Disgusted? Ashamed? Invigorated? He oddly felt none of these things. Yet, if anything, his tension had settled.

He took a deep breath and ventured back into the bar.

 Over the radio, a man howled. A vigorously upbeat song flipped into rotation. Several soldiers danced, swaying and clapping to the rhythm.

The man had reseated himself at the same table from before. His hair was now loosely tied back at the nape of his neck. Two beers sat in front of him, one unopened.

Danse stood, debating. The bar was teeming with soldiers, but each was occupied with drink, song, or storytelling. He joined the man at his table.

They drank, stealing glances at each other. It grew into an unintentional game of bashful scoffing and smirking. The man grinned at him from under high cheekbones and a sharp, straight, aristocratic nose. His eyes sparkled with humor. Danse, his nerve fortified by drink and relations, extended his hand. “I’m Daniel.”

The other man cordially shook it. “John.”

A beat. He felt his face flush. Danse shifted, dropping the man’s hand. He opened his mouth and closed it again, trying to find the right words.

The man’s eyes were sharp, intelligent and cunning. He waited for Danse to speak, one brow cocked.

Danse cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and failed once more, closing it again. He set his beer down. He pushed back in his chair and stood, feeling that he was pushing the moment too far. Finally, he forced out, “May the Wastes treat you kindly, friend.”

“Not likely.” The blonde man shook his head, eyes focusing on the bottom of his bottle. “Heading up to Diamond City. Nothing left here. No reason to keep turning down a steady place to live.” He picked at the hem of a near-immaculate pre-war flag that had been slung about his waist, bright crimson stripes sliding between his fingers.

“Then, safe travels…John from Diamond City.”

The man tipped his face to meet Danse’s gaze.

His eyes were hazel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Same Old Waltz
> 
> So, there it is! I finally get to tag the relationship! Did this shock anyone? Please leave a comment!
> 
> Kudos forever, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	17. Same Old Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 17: [Say Something - Pentatonix ](https://youtu.be/0dYlvdLdK9w/)  
> Coming from a song that was an utter high in the last chapter, I had to smash it to the ground with this tearjerker.

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 24th, 2287

There were intermittent phases of both darkness and light. Sound was muddy; an inaudible voice cut in and out. When John was finally able to focus, it was late afternoon. He was in his own house – he recognized the familiar poster of a kitten chewing a tiny bomb which hung in a corner of his room. The tilt of the mattress beneath him made him aware that someone else was sitting at one side of his bed.

Danse had his hands on his knees, spine slightly curved with his head inclined. He was at the edge of John’s bed, beside him, still dressed in that noxious orange suit that the Brotherhood insisted on. His chest was heaving as he sat there. Danse’s face was scarred more deeply than he remembered, pockmarked and grooved. John caught himself and recalled that his own visage was in far worse shape.

The sound of Danse’s voice clarified and John was finally able to make out what he was saying.

“– wouldn’t be honest. I had begun to fear that leaving that Prydwen was a mistake. Everything that I have experienced has been like a collision. And seeing you…see you look like this…knowing that you were unable to cope and the drastic action that you resorted to in order to escape the life you found yourself in….I worry that all of this is my fault. That I gave you no choice.” Danse heaved a breath. “That it was all because of me.” A single tear traced the vertical scar under his eye.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John mumbled, struggling to sit up. “Wasn’t all you.”

Shining brown eyes met his, heavy brows lifted in surprise. The Paladin was swift, grabbing John’s head with both hands, pressing their foreheads together so quickly that they nearly knocked skulls. John didn’t move, didn’t dare. He kept his own eyes open while Danse’s were squeezed tightly shut. The sound of their breathing became his only focus. There was an instant of heady need to connect, to reassure. Heat rushed down his arms.

He let his eyes close.

The grip on his head turned painful, fingers digging into his skull. The moment shattered when the larger man roughly shoved them apart. John’s back struck the wall with an impact that rattled his jaw.

Danse slunk from the room.

A choke rose in John’s throat. He heard voices, the Paladin speaking, a lilting French accent answering. John folded his arms around his legs, curling upon himself, palms pressed to his brow. A pain swelled so poignant that he couldn’t see straight. He ground his teeth and felt foolish. This sting was familiar. Same old waltz. An ocean had sprung up between them, an obstacle impossible to cross.

His eyes stung, his face hot. A trickling sensation prickled down his cheeks, accompanied by the slight burn of radiation. Tentatively, he touched the space between his eye and nasal cavity, pulling two fingers away from his face. The tips shone wet and bright in the afternoon sun, as if luminous light coated his fingers. He stared at them, dumbstruck. “The hell…” He took a jagged gasp. Curie poked her head into his room. John looked to her, stunned. “Am I dying?” he asked her.

“Oh, ce n’est. No,” Curie sweetly assured as she entered. She took his hand and smiled at him, taking a seat on his bed. “They are just tears.”

She reached to touch his face. He drew away out of instinct. He shook his head. “No, I…I can’t. Ghouls don’t do that. And this” – he held his fingers up, the substance that had rolled from his eyes incandescent and gleaming – “this ain’t even close to normal!”

“I had predicted as much. You are not just a ghoul, cher monsieur,” she said, pointedly. “I dare to say that you are becoming something very different.”

His breaths came quick. “Becoming…what? What’s happening to me?” He felt light-headed.

She was the one to shake her head this time. “I do not know. Something very new.” She continued to smile, eyes wide and enthused. “What a fantastic adventure. I am excited by this. Are you not?”

No, he wasn’t. Not at all.

He felt chilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: This One Goes Out to You
> 
> And right back into the main story. I'm having a great time writing this! Please comment below!
> 
> Thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	18. This One Goes Out to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 18: [Creep – Brian Justin Crum](https://youtu.be/M8AlxrwhY30/)  
> Here. Please enjoy some feelz.

JOHN

Diamond City, MA

October 3rd, 2277

His brother had emphasized that if John kept insisting on rolling around in the dirt like an animal, he should at least have a decent pen. John now resided in an expansive multi-leveled unit located in the heart of the Diamond City marketplace. Too rich for his blood but he never did learn how to say _no_.

He sat on the third level, bare feet dangling off the edge, re-lacing an arm guard, pulling the knot taunt with his teeth. An empty flask of Slasher sat beside one hip, needle weeping a final drop. He picked up a third beer as the first few pulses of the drug took effect. He wrung a tail from his flag-sash in his other hand, fingers twisting the fabric tight, making it strain. The tight weave had begun to loosen. Alone for the first time in his life without a mentor or defender, John felt as if he were slowly unraveling as well.  

“ _John_.” He could hear West’s mechanical voice, clear as the day he had spoken. “ _John, stop. Additional action is not required.”_ It hadn’t mattered that his hand had been shaking so badly that it jangled the screws in the gun; the distance was only two feet. The shot landed exactly where it had been necessary.

His heartbeat increased as the full effects of the chem cocktail crashed into his body. He finished his beer and placed the empty bottle beside the others. He released the flag, reached into one of his deep pockets, fished, and pulled one a single piece of After Burner. He thoughtfully unwrapped it, popped the piece into his mouth and chewed. The old gum softened instantly, its euphoric influence making the pounding of his heartbeat flush in pleasurable throbs. He let his head roll back as he drowned in sensation, the combination of chems and alcohol pushing thought from his mind.

At ground level, a tentative knock rattled the aluminum door and created harsh pulsations that conflicted with his high. He head snapped forward. “Yeah?” he called, cracking his gum. When there was no answer he leaned forward and shouted again. “ _Fuckin’ yeah_?”

The handle twisted and a skinny teenager poked his head in. His mousy brown hair was in dire need of a trim.  Travis Miles had recently inherited the local radio station, its bandwidth spanning the entire region. The pressure of being the voice of a nation appeared to not be sitting well. His shoulders were hunched, his nervous hands rubbed against one another, and his hair stuck out at all angles. “Uhhh, hey. There’s…well, there’s this…um...It’s…”

John popped a bubble, waiting. The room seemed to gently rock from side to side. Maybe it was just him. “Out with it, kid.”

“There’s a….well, there’s a transmission for you. Uhh, on the radio, I mean. I guess, uh, _transmission_ gave it away but, uhh…They’re waiting for you. I mean, on the...on the thing.”

John cocked his head, still chewing. There were few who knew where he was. Fewer, he suspected, that cared. All his friends were dead.

John hopped down a level. He stepped into his combat boots, crisscrossing the laces around the ankles of his cargo pants and knotting them. He still wore the flag, knotted at one hip – suspected he always would - and a billowy white shirt with that tied up the front. He wore no armor other than leather arm guards that were laced from wrist to elbow. A knife was sheathed in the left one.

Walking from Home Plate to second base seemed to take a ridiculously long time. Turning to go up the steps to the radio trailer, he spat his gum. Travis swung the door open and they stepped inside the cramped camper.

“How am I doing this?” John asked.

“Kinda simple, um, I guess. Maybe?” Travis pointed out a few buttons. “On. Off.”

John nodded. “Got it.”

Travis twisted a knob and stepped away. There was a clash of static.

Someone on the other end cleared their throat. A deep, smooth voice asked, “John?”

John leaned the edges of his palms on the counter. “Yeah? What’s it to you?”

“Do you remember me?”

A rush of recollection, of rough hands, authority and intense, dark eyes made his body pulse in time with his heart.

His casual experiment had found him.

John turned to Travis, silently and emphatically waving him out. The boy blinked and rushed to scurry out of the trailer, banging his knee on the way out. The door swung closed behind him with a click.

“At the risk of sounding trite,” the voice continued, “I am…unable to refrain from thinking of you.”

John switched the radio off and stepped back, as if the equipment would bite. He rubbed his palms together, generating friction, heat and nervous energy. He paced in a quick circle. The trailer seemed to sway and vibrate. He shook his head in a meager attempt to clear it and wished he was sober. He turned the radio back on.

“Are….are you still there?” he was asked.

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“Can you meet me?” the voice inquired.

He paused. “Yes.”

A pause on their end. “ _Will_ you meet me?”

“Yes.” There is no hesitation.

“There is an old listening post nearly due north of you. Pre-war. Can you get there?”

“Yes.” He felt vaguely out of body and tried to remember what chems he might have incorrectly mixed.

“On the twentieth? I…look forward to seeing you again.”

“Okay. I mean…yeah. Um…me, too.”

It wasn’t a lie, even if it wasn’t entirely true. At least it would give him a reprieve to get out of town and away from the scathing disapproval of his brother. He could use the distraction.

Nothing was ever likely to happen in a place like Diamond City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: Ever Unbending - A Blind Betrayal adaptation
> 
> Holy crap! That's it! Season One is complete! *parades and confetti*
> 
> Thank you all for taking this journey with me and I'll see you for Season Two!
> 
> Cheers to [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/) for putting up with my shit and helping me get this done!
> 
> Please leave me some good old fashioned comments and kudos, love
> 
> \--- General Lee

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all. The first chapter was always meant to be short and dirty, getting some plot elements out of the way before launching into the main story. Originally, this entire series focused on an entirely separate character but, while writing this, putting Danse as the lead seemed to make sense. It is canon that he has been a Paladin for a decade. If he really is the greatest soldier in the BoS, why is he still in this rank and not a Paladin-Commander, Star Paladin or even a Sentinel? What happened over that ten year period that kept him right where he started? 
> 
> As a note, the Sole Survivor does not appear in this season. The other characters are strong enough to exist without a SS. It also keeps me from inadvertently writing myself into the story :/
> 
> I'm excited to tell this story, which is currently comprised of a seven season arc.  
> I'm also very nervous.  
> Please fuel my fire with comments and questions!


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